


Fortunes of the Fearless

by orphan_account



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), The Three Musketeers (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aramis Whump, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, F/M, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution, more tagging may happen, the inseparables will always become the inseparables
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-18 12:25:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13681641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What if Porthos had never left the Court of Miracles, and Aramis' father had never taken him from the brothel?





	1. The Queen's diamonds

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that I've been toying with for a while, and as I am usually a drawing type of person, never got round to attempting any sort of writing of it. But, I decided to give it a go since the entire plot is in my head, and I am not yet good enough at composing comic-style works to draw it all out! XD There will likely be some accompanying fanart.
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoy this (very short - I'm sorry!) first chapter...

Marsac was not letting the thief out of his sight. This man - this scoundrel - who had intruded in the Queen’s private quarters, who had stolen a diamond necklace right from her dressing table, who had threatened to compromise the honour of that most noble lady…he was not going to get away. He was not going to get away, and Marsac was going to be the one to catch him.

The pursuit had taken them out of the Louvre and its ground, along the river back, and now deep into the unsightly backstreets of Paris. Ordinarily, Marsac would have no business here, save for the occasional patrol, but spurred on by his righteous duty to the crown, he sped through the blighted streets as if they were his own.

He had been training alongside the musketeers for some time now, and he was more than ready to join their ranks. Treville agreed, Marsac knew, even if the captain hadn’t actually said it yet. All that was required for him prove it was one act of valour, one great service to the King and Queen, to France, and he would earn his place among the musketeers.

This thief was his key to that elite.

A sharp right almost evaded him, but he skidded round it just in time to see the thief scrambling through an open door. The building he had entered had two floors, and the second looked as if it could be reached by a crumbling staircase built against the street-facing wall of the neighbouring house. Marsac upturned a cart in front of the entrance to block the thief’s exit via that rout, sprinted up the stairs, and began scrambling over to the balcony of the house.

Sure enough, by the time Marsac reached the balcony, the thief was already there and starting to climb onto the roof behind him, perhaps hoping to find a way down the other side.

But Marsac was quick, and a good climber, and not burdened with the spoils of theft. He reached the thief before he got to the top of the house and drew his pistol, but the thief was quick too, and eager to keep the spoils of his theft. Before Marsac could ready the pistol, he suddenly found his hands seized by those of his target, trying to wrench it out of his grasp. The pair scrambled for the weapon, each attempting to obtain enough purchase and an angle at which to pull the trigger on the other.

The thief was strong and skilled in close combat, and he soon managed to manoeuvre the weapon from Marsac’s hands. It was clumsy with the would-be musketeer still fighting to regain control, but the thief managed to twist the barrel of the pistol upwards under Marsac’s chin. A point-blank shot that would send the contents of his skull spraying over the roof. Marsac grit his teeth, but ceased struggling. He was at the thief’s mercy. Funny how a tide can turn in an instant. One moment you’re barely a breath away from realising your greatest dream…the next, you’re drawing your final breaths. A small, cowardly and dishonourable part of his mind held hope that this man might just flee and avoid adding murder to his ledger.

The crack of a gunshot that signalled his demisewas much quieter than Marsac had been expecting. But then, had he expected to hear it at all, given the instantaneous nature of his imminent death?

The barrel slipped from below his chin, gun clattering down the slanted roof onto the balcony below. The thief slumped against Marsac’s body, eyes wide and unseeing, his lifeless face becoming stained with the blood from a bullet wound perfectly, almost elegantly, situated in his temple.

Marsac stared at the dead man, then down at the street so far below them.

There, in the middle of the street stood a single man. A deep blue shawl hung loosely about his shoulders and neck, covering a thin white shirt that would do little to keep out the cold of a spring evening. His dark brown hair curled playfully about his fine-featured face. It nothing like the beautiful ringlets of the ladies at court. This was wild and untamed, and beautiful in a way Marsac had never seen before.

The stranger stared back up at Marsac with rich dark eyes that, even at this distance, Marsac could tell were filled with mirth. Flashing a brief smile, the man tucked his pistol away and disappeared further down the street and round a corner, leaving Marsac, the dead man, and the Queen’s diamonds alone on the roof.


	2. Captivated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for the comments! I hadn't actually expected anyone to read this, so I'm so happy that you guys did and that you enjoyed it. The feedback really made my day. :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Marsac’s thoughts lingered on the encounter as he wound through the maze of streets back to the Louvre. He was vaguely aware that he ought to make all haste in returning, anxious as the Queen would be for the safe recovery of her possessions. Yet he meandered an indirect route through the alleys and smaller roads, pausing here and there whenever some movement, some flash of deep blue or rich brown, caught his eye.

It was a futile, foolish thing to hope he might catch another glimpse of his mysterious saviour.

The beautiful man would have vanished back into the inner workings of this sprawling city, their paths never to cross again. He tried to dispel the ache that thought drew from somewhere deep within him as the splendour of the King’s palace began to loom before him.

Drawing nearer, it dawned on Marsac that he had no explanation for precisely how the diamonds had been retrieved. He could hardly inform the captain that the thief’s petty existence had been ended by some peasant, even if that peasant was more divine in appearance than any man of noble birth. He would be labelled incompetent or worse yet, a coward. Forced to rely upon the intervention of some nameless commoner.

No. He couldn’t recount the events in full. He would simply leave his saviour out of the tale.

Marsac had made chase of the thief all through Paris and finally cornered him in an alley. It was in that alley that the thief made to escape over a rooftop, and it was on that rooftop that he had met his end. It was a clean shot from a pistol, and hit its mark perfectly on the thief’s temple. An excellent shot, truth be told, taken as it was from the street far below. The thief dead, Marsac had retrieved the diamonds and made all haste to deliver them to her Majesty.

There was no lie there. Just a few particulars omitted. Marsac saw no shame in that. And, after all, he had rescued the diamonds. When it came down to it, that was all that mattered. That was all his sovereigns would care about.

Treville must have seen Marsac’s approach and noted the pouch of diamonds he carried with him, for the captain was waiting at the foot of a marble staircase as he crossed the palace grounds. By the time Marsac reached him, he had recounted to himself the tale of his valorous endeavour so many times that it rolled easily off his tongue as he handed the pouch over.

The captain was impressed. He brought Marsac with him to return the diamonds to Her Majesty. On hearing the tale, the Queen expressed her deepest gratitude and the King his delight.

In the weeks that followed, Marsac noticed a change in his comrades. A new respect. An acceptance. The musketeers encouraged him to join them at the taverns and brothels they frequented when off duty, and they were keen to train with him in the courtyard. Treville too, had changed his approach to the recruit, bestowing orders of more import upon him, and having him join the missions of seasoned musketeers on more than one occasion. It therefore came as no surprise when the King finally granted Marsac his commission, bringing this brave and noble man into that most elite circle of men: the King’s Musketeers.

Distracted at first by the celebration that followed, and soon by his new duties, Marsac nearly forgot the truth of his valorous act. He had almost come to believe that he had truly apprehended the thief unaided, and his mind would no doubt have painted it a fact were it not for the handsome features of his saviour that lingered at the edge of his every thought.

Marsac was haunted by that stranger. By the elegance with which he held himself. By the untamed curls. By the brilliance of his smile.

But as a musketeer, and with the responsibilities such an esteemed role carried with it, Marsac was able to distract himself with training and duties and upholding the law of this great city. In time, he would surely forget his beautiful marksman, and all would be well.

***

After a long and tiresome day of guard duty at the palace, Marsac wanted nothing more than a few good drinks and some pleasing company. So he was more-or-less contented to follow his comrades to a brothel situated on the edge of one of the more derelict areas of Paris.

It was certainly not one of their usual haunts, and Marsac highly doubted the whores there would be anywhere near suitable to fulfil his needs for the night, but one of their company had insisted, declaring the place to have ‘a King’s ransom worth of breasts and backsides’. That seemed sufficient enticement for the men, so no one really protested the little excursion.

The brothel itself was much like any other. Patrons lounged about at tables littering the room, drinking cheap wine and brandy, and enjoying the attentions of a number of overly-preened whores. Every now and then, a patron could be seen being led across the open room to a wooden staircase against the far wall, disappearing upstairs and into the private chambers of their chosen companion for the next hour or so.

The group of musketeers melded naturally into the raucous throng of patrons, and Marsac was soon seated with his comrades, sipping contentedly at some watered-down brandy. Two of their men had already taken women to the upstairs rooms, and the remainder were eagerly reviewing their options with all the excitement of children at a patisserie. Marsac eyed the room’s occupants with moderate interest. It was pleasantly noisy and the women were attractive enough, but it…he froze.

On the other side of the room, separated from him by three tables worth of prostitutes and patrons, he saw a wild mass of dark brown curls. Even from this distance and in the dim light of the brothel, Marsac knew that this was his beautiful marksman. The same man who persisted in his mind and haunted his dreams. There was no doubt in it. That captivating man was right here, right before Marsac, as if conjured by some instrument of fate.

And he was currently flirting very outwardly with a gentlewoman he had just accompanied down the wooden staircase.

The brandy left a bitter taste in Marsac’s mouth.

Wordlessly, he pushed away from the table and strode towards the man in the most casual manner he could muster with his blood rushing suddenly so hot through his veins. Drunken cheers erupted from behind as his companions rejoiced in his having taken fancy to some whore.

Which, Marsac realised as he watched the beautiful man kissing that gentlewoman’s dainty hand, he suppose he had. There was no doubt about the role his marksman played in this establishment.

Marsac had enough presence of mind to wait, awkwardly, for the lady to depart, but he pounced without hesitation the second she was gone.

Perhaps the appropriate action would have been to hold out a hand to the other man and politely introduce himself. But Marsac had, at times, been known to act without thinking. Now was probably one of those times, and instead of opting for appropriate, he roughly grabbed the beautiful man’s upper arm to stop him from fleeing up the stairs.

“It was you!” Marsac blurted.

The handsome features transitioned rapidly from alarmed to defensive to confused, finally resting on gleefully entertained.

“I’m afraid you will have to be more specific, monsieur musketeer.”

Marsac leant in, tightening his grip on the other man’s arm.

“You know what I mean.” He hissed.

The beautiful man’s eyes sparkled with mirth and he took a small step to further close the gap between them, “Be careful, monsieur, lest your comrades start to question your moral character, not to mention the fate of your immortal soul.”

“And you?” Marsac retorted in a moment, lessening his grip only slightly, “Do you not fear for the fate of your immortal soul? You killed a man.”

The dark eyes never left contact with his.

“To save the life of a better man.”

“How do you know I was the better man?”

“Were you not? Ought I have sent the bullet through your skull instead?” The stranger’s breath ghosted against Marsac’s ear, sending an unwitting shiver of pleasure down his spine.

Marsac pulled back instantly, taking an unnecessarily long step backwards.

“I-I merely wished to thank you. For saving my life.” He said hurriedly, eliciting a gleaming smile from the beautiful man before him.

“It was my pleasure, monsieur.” He lowered his head just enough to veil his rich brown eyes behind long eyelashes, “And now, I’m afraid you shall have to forgive me. Idle conversation will do little to earn my keep.”

With a polite bow more befitting a gentleman than a whore, the man excused himself and swiftly retreated up the wooden stairs.

Marsac stared after him. With each step, the fabric of his trousers tightened just enough to reveal a whisper of the muscular contours hidden below, and Marsac suddenly found himself longing for that brandy to ease his parched throat.

He remained there, staring, even after the man had disappeared entirely from view until a disturbing thought suddenly struck him. Marsac had not enquired as to the young man’s name. He immediately grabbed the arm of the next whore who passed him by.

“That lad. His name, if you please?”

The woman gave him a wry smile, “He goes by Rene, sir, and takes the third room upstairs.”

***

For nine days Marsac thought of little other than the young man, Rene.

No matter how busy he became or what orders he was sent to carry out, some part of his mind lingered on that man. Guard duties were the worst. At least on an active mission, or even patrol, there was some action or conversation or goings on to serve as a mild distraction. But standing guard, in silence and on ceremony, with naught but the dull habits of courtiers and gentlefolk to watch…it was almost unbearable.

On that ninth day, after nearly as many hours standing next to a well-pruned hedge with only twittering birds for company, Marsac could take no more. He declined the invitation of cards from his fellows at the garrison, and instead returned immediately to his lodgings to replace his uniform with a nondescript doublet and wide-brimmed hat.

With the sun having sunk below the cityscape many hours before, no one noticed when he slipped out of the garrison apartments and into the maze of streets leading to the brothel. He silently thanked his good fortune for having had patrol in the area on several occasions before, lest he thought he might have been unable to find the place in the near pitch dark over an overcast night.

The place was as busy as it had been a week or so prior, allowing Marsac to disappear with ease among the crowd. No one paid him any mind as he meandered through the room in search of his target. He was not to be found flaunting before patrons in the downstairs room, so Marsac carefully picked his way over to the stairs.

At the upper landing, he was faced with a hallway of painted wooden doors leading away from a balconied window. With only one direction to go in, he counted his way along to arrive at a teal door whose flaking paint revealed it to have once been crimson. He paused outside, listening against the wood, but there was no sound from within. Then, with the stealth of a true musketeer, he pushed open the door and peered into the candlelit room.

For his part, Rene did not appear to have heard the door open, or at least was unconcerned by the intrusion if he had. The man was, instead, thoroughly engrossed in a thick, well-worn tome, the words of which he was muttering beneath his breath.

Thinking himself for the moment unnoticed, Marsac opted to watch for a time. To observe those rose-coloured lips shape and form around words and syllables. The dark eyes scanned intently over the page, glinting in the flickering candlelight.

“Stare too long and your eyes shall grow dry.”

Marsac nearly jumped at the sound of the man’s voice.

“Forgive me, monsieur Rene, I was just…”

Rene flipped the book closed and turned to his intruder.

“You were just?” He stood and placed the book gently onto the bed behind him, “I presume there is an end to that sentence, monsieur musketeer.”

Marsac remained frozen in place. All airs of superiority he had intended to carry into this room had disappeared the moment those mesmerising eyes rose from the pages to meet his own.

Rene, undeterred by this silence, continued, “No? Do you wish me to finish that sentence for you, monsieur?”

He was circling past the musketeer to gently click the door shut behind him. Marsac heard the turn of a key, barely audible above the thrum of blood in his ears.

“You were just hoping to express once again your gratitude for my saving of your life, no?”

Marsac shook his head.

“No then.” Rene paused, as if musing, “Well, perhaps you come to pay your compliments to my excellent marksmanship.”

Again, Marsac shook his head.

“No again!”

Rene smirked and traced an index finger over Marsac’s leather belt, letting his hand slide up the hilt of his sword to linger at its end.

“I’m afraid, then, that I am entirely out of ideas.” His hand slipped away from the weapon and he made to return to his book, “I would that I had time to play such guessing games, monsieur musketeer, but alas, I must…”

Marsac suddenly, brusquely, and clumsily fell upon Rene in that moment. He easily force the smaller man backwards onto the bed, following him down and straddling his hips without relinquishing those delectable lips for a second. Rene tasted of wine and smelt of incense. His wild curls were softer than the finest velvet, his skin like the smoothest marble, and his body taught beneath Marsac’s. He was utterly intoxicating.

Rene laughed into the space between them as they broke for air, “I hope you intend to pay for this service, monsieur.”

Marsac shot Rene a quick glare and opted to silence him with resumed conquest of his mouth. This drew another laugh from the smaller man, one which Marsac felt rather than heard. He deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue past the parted lips, and relishing the new, sweet taste he encountered within. Rene responded in perfect rhythm, playfully resisting the ministrations of Marasc’s tongue, only to relinquish control to the musketeer once more.

With the heat rising throughout his body and the blood pumping wildly through his veins, Marsac barely even noticed when, or how, Rene had manoeuvred him out of his doublet. He hadn’t the faintest clue where his hat had gone, and he was quite sure he had been wearing a sword belt when he had arrived.

But Rene’s hands were underneath his shirt now, and his mouth hot against his ear, teeth nipping at the tender spot just below. Marsac clung with one hand to the soft, wild curls, while the other pressed firmly against Rene's chest, pinning him against the sheets.

Marsac wanted more. To see more, to feel more, to taste more.

Using the hand twisted in Rene’s hair, Marsac tugged the other man’s head back to expose the angular contours of his neck. He sucked little kisses all the way down and ran his tongue back up. Rene arched beneath him, letting out an exquisite moan. Marsac grinned and let his mouth explore more of the sensitive neck, lingering to lavish attention on spots that drew the same wanton noises from his marksman.

And then, in an instant, their positions had switched and Marsac was leaning up to recapture Rene’s mouth. But the other man smiled, pulled away, and begun an exploration of his own. He moved languidly down Marsac’s body with wandering hands and lips until the hem of Marsac’s trousers was pinched between his teeth.

Rene smiled up at his musketeer, the perfect epitome of lust.

“Shall I finish that sentence for you now, musketeer?”


	3. The good life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the comments. I really appreciate you taking the time to let me know what you think. :)
> 
> This chapter is a little longer than the previous ones...please let me know if it's so long that it becomes unwieldy and inconvenient, and I will stick to shorter chapters. Or, alternatively, if you prefer longer chapters, please also say and I'll stick to those.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

His curiosity - because that was _all_ his interest in Rene was - satiated by their brief encounter, Marsac returned to the garrison, comfortable in the knowledge that he would once again be able to focus on his duties. Now that he had experienced the man's masterful handling of things other than a pistol, he was contented that he could put that handsome face forever from his mind. He would think no more of the untamed and luscious thick brown hair, nor of the beautifully crafted features it framed. He would think never again of seductive dark eyes. He could focus at last, and he was ready to throw every bit of his energy and attention into service of the King, Paris, and France. His lust was quenched, his desires fulfilled, and that fleeting infatuation forever entombed.

Two days later he was back at the brothel.

Entering the building with his hat pulled low and his uniform hastily discarded in his lodgings, he wasted no time in locating his target amidst the patrons and whores crowding the room. The beautiful man was engaged in a lively, and entirely all-too familiar, conversation with a table of rough-looking sailors. Rene seemed not in the least bit surprised nor even slightly recalcitrant when Marsac grabbed him by the wrist to lead him briskly up the stairs and drag him into his room with its teal entryway.

He felt his hat already being removed and his overcoat deftly undone even as he pushed the other man hard against the door, forcing it shut. There was the slightest click as Rene turned the key in its hole, and a quiet clatter when it was tossed onto the dresser, both noises almost muted by the sound of Marsac’s own blood thrumming through his veins as his senses were once more overwhelmed with the intoxicating smell, and taste, and feel of this man.

Marsac had taken whores before. Of course he had. He was a young man in Paris. It was more-or-less mandatory. But none had been like this. This was something special. It was so much beyond simply a whore and his customer, and not just because Marsac was not paying. No. When the musketeer took Rene, when they were joined as one, he felt something stir deep within him. The look in those dark eyes told Marsac that Rene had felt it too. This was more than a game of desire.

This notion, that Marsac's interest in the young man extended beyond mere lust, was proven true when the musketeer arrived at the brothel to seek out Rene a third time, only to find him leading another man, a very drunk and fairly rich-looking gentleman, up the creaky wooden staircase. There was an incensing pang of jealousy that Marsac felt all the way to his bones at the sight. The sensation was irritating and, he reminded himself, ridiculous. But all the self-admonishment and logic he could muster did nothing to dispel the feeling.

He bought himself a bottle of wine and found an aptly positioned table from which he could watch the stairs. That ‘gentleman’ would be the _only_ other man Rene took into his bed that night.

It was over an hour before Rene’s customer returned, walking with the airs of a man who had just achieved something great, and several more minutes before the young man himself drifted down the staircase looking as unassumingly stunning as ever. He spotted the musketeer almost instantly, but made a show of meandering very gradually over to Marsac’s table.

While it could have been a measure to prevent the brothel madam taking notice of their unpaid encounters, Marsac knew full well that Rene was simply teasing his musketeer. He would pause regularly to flirt with various men and women at the tables en route. Some of the men dismissed him with a disdainful look or hateful shove, whereas others, and all the women, welcomed his advances, pulling him into their laps or smoothing their hands over his body. He would lean in to say something to them, they would laugh heartily or giggle bashfully, and Rene would proffer a polite bow before moving languidly on. Slowly, ever so slowly, making his way to his target.

At last, the man slipped elegantly onto Marsac’s table, crossed his legs towards the musketeer and leaned back on one hand. He casually picked up Marsac’s half-filled cup of wine and swirled the contents, watching the liquid with disinterest and a sigh of feigned impatience.

“You are costing me money, monsieur.” He tapped an elegantly curled finger three times on the edge of the cup, “Tell me. Why should I not go in search of more lucrative exploits?"

“I can pay!” Marsac said hurridly, placing a firm hand on Rene’s thigh to stop him making good on his threat, “I’ll pay. Whatever you charge.”

An air of melancholy immediately fell over Rene’s beautiful features, the playful light in his eyes extinguished like a dowsed flame.

He carefully placed the cup back down, “What am I worth, I wonder?”

His hand remained, lingering with two fingers rested gently on the rim. Marsac was about to attempt some sort of apology, but then, in an instant a mischeivious smile appeared on Rene's lips and all traces of that immense sadness were gone.

"Your name.” He demanded, raising an incredulous stare from the musketeer.

"My name?”

A slender hand absently stroked through the thick curls at the back of his head. It might have been an unconscious movement, but from the long, graceful arch his neck presented to the musketeer as he turned towards the raised arm, Marsac imagined not.

“Your name, monsieur.” He repeated, “That is my price."

The musketeer raised an eyebrow, "That's all?”

Playful flickered into serious as Rene smiled thoughtfully back at Marsac, "A name is a very powerful thing, monsieur.”

To the musketeer, a name was just words, a label. It was written down in a ledger or said aloud to call attention, but nothing more. One name was as good as any other. But, with his purse being of limited capacity and his desire growing with every second he sat here talking, Marsac really didn’t care to dispute the matter.

"Marsac," The musketeer took one of the slender, soft hands in his own and brought it to his lips with a gentlemanly lowering of the head, "My name is Marsac."

“Well, monsieur Marsac,” Rene whispered, leaning in to tip Marsac’s hat further down to hide his face, “Let us get properly acquainted.”

***

It was remarkable how Rene always knew exactly what Marsac needed. The mood he was in when he arrived at the brothel and precisely how to tend it. He could calm Marsac when he was over energised from the lingering thrill of a fight, but lift him up when boredom or some unpleasant business had lowered his spirits. He knew when to put up some resistance to Marsac’s dominance in their engagements and when to surrender. When and when not to play with the musketeer. Like a skilled soldier, he read Marsac’s body perfectly and moved with its rhythm. They were in tune. Complementary.

And so Marsac found no shame in what he did with Rene. How could he when it felt so utterly right? He had never been particularly concerned with matters of religion, so the fear of some stain on his immortal soul was entirely irrelevant. And, in any case, such acts were not exactly unheard of among soldiers. A group of men out on some mission or campaign for long stretches of time certainly pleasured each other on occasion. He had experienced that with the musketeers a time or two. To Marsac, the actual act of sodomy was little more than an extension of that natural tendency.

Men had needs, and he saw no reason why to not fulfil them with another man. Particularly when that other man was the enigmatic and beautiful Rene.

Nonetheless, not everyone in the garrison held such liberal views, so Marsac kept the truth of his romantic affairs to himself. It was easy enough to do. His comrades simply assumed he had taken a mistress when he stopped joining them so frequently at the brothels and taverns, On the rare occasions that they ventured to Rene’s workplace together, his lover read the situation easily and paid him no more heed than any of the other drunk customers in the place.

Marsac put up with Rene sleeping with other men and women. It was an unfortunate side effect of taking a whore for a lover. In turn, Rene put up with Marsac sometimes being gone for weeks at a time on some mission or other.

Marsac learned to put up with the occasional bruises decorating his lover’s beautiful body from a particularly high-paying customer, and Rene put up with Marsac’s occasional battle wounds. The brilliant man had even taught himself some rudimentary medical skills so that he could tend the less serious injuries himself.

Their partnership felt natural. Right. Marsac was happy. He knew Rene was happy too. Life was, he decided as he sipped at a brandy one evening, very good.

Marsac saw the red guard Rene had been servicing that night reappear at the bottom of the stairs. He pretended not to notice Marsac, and Marsac pretended not to notice him. A mutually kept discretion was always best in establishments such as this.

Waiting until the other man would have had time to leave, Marsac headed up to Rene’s room and let himself in without caring to knock.

“A red guard?” He asked, closing the door and locking it.

Rene was applying an ointment to ugly red ligature marks on his wrists, “Hmm. You know him?” He asked with only mild interest.

“Only that he is a red guard. We have not had occasion to share words.” Marsac took the ointment and started smoothing it over his lover’s skin, “Does he hurt you?”

There was none of the pain or sadness he might have expected to see in Rene’s eyes when he looked up at Marsac, but rather a warmth. An adoration. Gratitude, Marsac realised, for the concern.

“He is ashamed of his desires, and so he acts upon them more aggressively than he might. One cannot blame him. The Cardinal…to think he would have his own men hanged for such sin.” Rene looked away with an almost hateful glare out the window. He let the musketeer finish applying the ointment and set it back down on the dresser before continuing, “What is that sin, would you say?”

“Sodomy, Rene.” Marsac replied bluntly.

“Indeed. But who wrote that sin?”

Marsac stroked a calloused hand through his lover’s unruly hair, admiring the beautiful features it so often hid, “Was it not God?”

“Men speaking for God.” Rene corrected easily, “Speaking for their God. But not for my God. Mine is a God of love. Love…an unbreakable bond linking two immortal souls. The soul is neither male nor female, just as God is neither male nor female, and yet is within both. I do not - I cannot - believe that He deems the love of two men any less precious than that of a man for a woman.”

He shook his head then, the motion sending soft curls tickling the back of Marsac’s hand, “Or perhaps I merely wish to think such things, for if I did not I would need face that the circumstances of my birth have condemned me to satan’s inferno.”

Marsac observed fondly the transformation as his theologist became his lover once more, and the playful, flirtatious Rene re-emerged to grin up at his musketeer. He leaned in to plant a chaste kiss against Marsac’s lips. The blond could feel Rene's skilled hands start to undo his belt. He heard his sword clatter to the floor.

“But, my dear musketeer, I wager you did not come here to discuss theology. Hm?”

Marsac grabbed Rene’s wrist then, stilling his hands and placing a kiss on the knuckles of each with a smile, “But I could listen to you speak it for days.”

Rene laughed, leaning past their joined hands to kiss Marsac once more, “There is no need for flattery, musketeer. I am already yours, for however long you desire me.”

It would have been so easy for Marsac to pull the younger man into a deep kiss, to ease him backwards onto the bed, to take him as he had so many times before. But something stopped him. Some thought gnawing at the corners of his mind. Instead he examined Rene’s bruised wrists again.

“Do you enjoy your job?”

“And what job would that be, monsieur?” Rene asked back, with a raised eyebrow and a tone of voice that told the blond he had just walked into one of his little games.

“Sex.” Marsac replied blankly. He was more than happy to play Rene’s game.

A sultry smile graced the handsome features, “You know very well that I offer more than sex.”

“Sexual acts, then.” In the face of that smile, Marsac found himself wishing he had begun a very different game with his lover.

“That is what my patrons pay for, yes.”

“Then is it not your job?”

Rene smirked and walked Marsac backwards onto the bed, “It is what my patrons pay for, but it is not what they come to me for.”

Marsac was finding it rather hard to focus on this conversation with his lover straddling his lap. He cleared his throught, “And pray, tell, what do they come to you for?”

“Freedom.” Rene stood and walked two paces away, leaving Marsac aching frustratingly for his return. “A chance to rid themselves of the demons that haunt their lives, even if it is just for a fleeting moment.”

He had started to untie the lace about his shirt collar. The musketeer watched with ever deepening breath as his lover slipped the fabric smoothly over his head and let it slide down one leg onto the floor below.

“The noble lady in a loveless marriage, who craves a tender touch.”

His fingers moved to undo the buttons of his trousers.

“The labourer desperate for a gentle hand to ease the tension of his daily life.”

The trousers too slipped to the floor, and Rene took one small backwards step out of them, towards the bed. Within Marsac’s reach.

“The general who needs to relinquish control.”

Dark eyes locked with Marsac’s through the mirror.

“The soldier who needs to take it.”

Marsac swallowed thickly, “You think I want control?”

“I know that you are hungry for it.” Rene licked over his bottom lip and made to move away, but Marsac grabbed his wrist, pulled him in, and spun them so he was pinning his lover beneath him.

“You ask whether I enjoy my job?” He began working on the clasps of Marsac’s leather jacket, “I enjoy helping people. I enjoy listening to and their sorrows and torments, and granting from them some relief.”

Marsac shrugged out of the jacket, allowing Rene’s hands to find their way up and under his shirt. He caressed over the skin beneath so softly and tenderly until both hands came to rest over Marsac’s heart.

“When allowed a moment of freedom from the demons we create for ourselves and those cast upon us by society, the mind can open up and the heart is allowed some part in our lives. Only then can God’s hand truly be felt.”

Marsac couldn’t help but capture Rene’s lips in a lingering kiss.

“I doubt many would see the hand of God in your work.” He breathed, pressing their foreheads together.

Marsac felt Rene’s smile as the smaller man leant up to kiss the musketeer.

“His hand is in everything, monsieur.”

“Even this?” Marsac challenged playfully.

“Especially this.” Rene returned seriously.

***

"This is the fifth attack in less than two months." Treville declared, his voice laden with a frustration shared in equal measure by the five assembled musketeers, “Do we know anything about the robbers?"

The most senior of the present company took the liberty of laying out the known facts, such as they were.

Three people, all wearing makeshift cloth masks, were repeatedly holding up carriages and trade carts on their way into the city.  They had a clear plan. Two would unload the cargo into their saddlebags, while the third kept a pistol trained on the victims.  They never killed. Only stole.  On one occasion, the hostage-keeper had knocked the owner of a cart out, but only after he tried to fight back.  Descriptions varied and were generally useless, thanks to the poorly crafted masks and layers of overcoats the robbers wore. The only common observation had been that one appeared to be a woman or child, based on their stature, whilst the others were tall and presumably men.

And there ended the extent of what weeks worth of investigations had uncovered.  As soon as the robbery was complete, the attackers disappeared back into the woodwork of Paris, vanishing with the stolen goods, leaving no trail or leads for the musketeers to follow.

Treville picked up again, "And still no sign of the diamond and pearl necklace?"

The captain sighed at the unanimous negating silence from his men, "That was an intended gift from His Majesty to the Queen. If not returned _before_ her birthday in two weeks time, someone is going to suffer for it. Make sure it's the thieves."

The musketeers were dismissed with that implicit order to hasten their search for the culprits, and they went diligently about that very duty.  They patrolled, they investigated the route on which the robbery had taken place, they questioned those living near the latest ambush site.

It was, yet again, another fruitless effort, as Marsac recounted to his lover while admiring Rene cleaning himself up after his last customer. All the frustration from a wasted day ebbed as the musketeer took in the sight of that sinewy figure, and drank in the way the beautiful man undertook every movement with such poise and grace as would have better befitted sovereignty.

"We need to catch these criminals before they make the musketeers look bad." Marsac complained, immediately frowning when he saw Rene smirk back at him through the dusty mirror, "What?"

The young man turned and leaned back on the wooden surface, shrugging in a way that bundled dark curls against his clean-shaven jaw, "Or before the red guards catch them?  I hear they have a lead on the robbers."

Marsac sat up instantly, "What lead?  Where did you hear that?"

Rene just laughed, "It was nothing more than some bragging guards downstairs.  They spoke of a wager between Treville and the Cardinal on whose men would stop these criminals first…they seemed rather certain it would be them.”

Marsac threw his arms up and flopped backwards on the bed in frustration.

“It _will_ be them at this rate!” He exclaimed, “We have nothing!”

Rene hummed thoughtfully,

"Yet you said there was a stolen pearl and diamond necklace?"

Marsac made a disheartened affirming sound, “For the Queen. What of it?”

"Among the women who come to see me is the wife of a pawnbroker, who has been concerned of her husband's infidelity for some time now.  Indeed, that's why she comes here. A sort of revenge, I suppose…” He took a seat beside Marsac on the bed, ”Lately he has been leaving the house at odd hours, she was saying, and just the other night her curiosity finally got the better of her, so she followed him.  But it was not another woman he was meeting..."

"The robbers?!” Marsac sat up eagerly, and Rene smiled at his enthusiasm.

“Perhaps. She said there were three masked people, including a woman. But there’s more.” Rene paused with a grin, "The next day she saw he had a very beautiful pearl and diamond necklace displayed in his shop! She did not describe it to me in detail, but such things are rather rare, I wager?”

Marsac mirrored the young man’s excited and hopeful grin.

"Where is this pawn shop?"

"On Rue du Bac  If these are your robbers, then perhaps..."

"The pawnbroker can lead us right to them." Marsac finished, kissing Rene's cheeks excitedly, "My love, I do not have the words!”

He leaped immediately to his feet and flung his cloak back over his shoulders. The sun had barely set, so there was still time to collect any of his comrades still on duty, hasten to the pawnbroker, and the visit be at a decent hour. With a final deep kiss to his lover and promise to return before the night was through, Marsac dashed from the room to follow this new lead.

It was much longer before he was back at the brothel. As it turned out, the pawnbroker had been on his way to meet with these very same sellers that night. Encouraged by the captain of the musketeers and his two heavily armed men on the doorstep, and the very real threat of imminent arrest, he had agreed to lead them to the intended meeting site.

Everything had happened so fast, events unfolding and fitting together all of a sudden after weeks without any real progress. Marsac had not the time to think before he found himself in the middle of a fight with one of the taller criminals. He was strong and skilled in close combat, but clearly untrained. The thief carried no sword, only a short dagger, which he wielded haphazardly. Even still, by some strange stroke of good or bad luck he managed to drive his short blade into the sleeve of Marsac's coat, catching it beneath the leather and slicing his forearm. When Marsac had jolted from the sudden sharp pain, the leather had creased and the blade become stuck up his sleeve. In the shock of such an unusual strike, the thief paused and Marsac took his opportunity. He brought he sword up, and before the larger man could fully back out of range, had struck him across the face.

The man let out a pained howl as blood seeped through the fabric of his mask and sprayed onto the ground below. He was clutching his eye in pain as the smallest of the three, having knocked unconscious her opponent, had two pistols trained at Marsac and the captain. That this was a woman and not a child was confirmed when she ushered her injured companion to run. And, with a glance at the bloody scene of the fight, run he did. She followed suit soon after. The third did not.

The third was dead.

***

Marsac was still elated from the fight and their victory when he burst through the door to Rene’s room. The sun had barely begun its ascent into the sky, and its mild morning rays filtered unevenly through the tattered curtains hung over the lone window. With such thin glass and no fireplace, it was unpleasantly cold within, but Marsac barely felt the chill. His blood was still coursing hot through his veins, his heart racing with the thrill of the fight.

He rushed over to his sleeping lover, rousing, or rather startling him awake, with a deep kiss. After an initial, brief moment of panic, the man seemed to recognise the blond smiling back at him through the darkness.

“M-Marsac?” Even waking disgruntled and with his hair a chaotic, fluffy mess, Rene was utterly stunning, “What are you…”

“We caught them!” Marsac grinned.

Rene continued his bemused stare, “Forgive me…who caught what?”

“The robbers. Or at least, we took care of them. For good, I’d wager. I doubt they will be causing any more trouble. One certainly won’t.” Marsac mimed a sword thrust to Rene's heart, “Courtesy of the captain himself.”

Rene smiled uneasily at the news, “So, the pawnbroker was able to help you find them then?”

Marsac nodded, “They didn’t even hear us coming. When we arrived, they were too busy arguing amongst themselves to notice. They put up a decent fight, though, as you can see.”

The musketeer pulled up his sleeve to show Rene the poorly bandaged deep gash along his forearm. Rene frowned, grabbed the wounded arm, and started unraveling the cloth to examine the wound.

“But I did one better.” The musketeer drew a vertical line over his left eye with a finger, “He’ll definitely have a scar! That is, if it doesn’t get infected and kill him first. It was deep.”

Rene muttered something under his breath that Marsac either didn’t hear properly or was in some other language, and clambered out of the bed, still wrapped in one of his many blankets. He fumbled inside a dresser draw before lighting a candle and returning with his makeshift surgical kit.

“You’ll be the one who gets killed by infection if this doesn’t get looked at soon.” He scolded, the disapproving shake of his head sending wayward dark tresses flying madly about his face, “Didn’t you see a physician?”

In the darkness, Rene’s eyes were like onyx. Marsac couldn’t resist pulling him bodily into a kiss.

“I came straight here.”

“You need a physician.”

“You are my physician.”

That inspired a small, bashful smile on Rene’s beautiful lips. He had removed the woollen blanket from his shoulders and was rolling up his sleeves, “So, you killed one and injured the other?”

“One of the others.” Marsac replied with a slight wince as his arm was splashed with cold water and Rene began rubbing a cloth over to clean it, “There were indeed three, two men and the third a woman.”

“A woman?”

“It was her who seemed to convince the thief I injured to flee. They left their dead friend and ill begotten goods right there in the street.” Marsac scoffed, “I suppose there really is no honour among thieves.”

“But there is self-preservation, it would seem.” Rene hummed and turned those beautiful eyes, onyx in the darkness, away from his work and up to meet Marsac’s, “Unlike among musketeers.”

There was none of the usual jesting or mirth to be found hidden in his words. He looked sadly at his musketeer before rummaging in the box of medical supplies for some thread and a needle.

“You need to be more careful.” He poked the thread through the eye of the needle and nodded just slightly to a bottle sat on the dresser. Marsac followed the silent instruction and retrieved Rene’s ever-present stash of brandy, a tool kept around to dull his musketeer’s pain in moments just like this.

Marsac took a deep drink and sat obediently down on the bed beside his lover.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, leaning over to kiss the top of the mess of curls, “I did not realise it was so bad.”

Rene shrugged, “It is still bleeding, and it’s deep enough to get infected, and I’d rather you didn’t…”

As he trailed off, the two men fell into a soft silence that broke only briefly when Rene replaced his medical kit in the dresser. The sun having risen and the stitches painfully in place, Marsac felt the exhaustion from the previous night overcome him. Crawling under the layers of blankets he silently pulled the man he loved into his arms, holding him in a wordless apology until they both fell asleep.

***

With the rising of the bright winter sun into a cloudless sky, a good few hours of rest, and his musketeer’s arms wrapped tightly around his body, Rene seemed to be more inclined to celebrate Marsac and his comrade’s victory.

He happily listened to the story of how the pawnbroker had led the musketeer troop to the intended meeting spot, of the details of the fight that soon followed with the robbers, and of their cowardly retreat from the scene.

“And it is all because of you, Rene.” Marsac beamed, kissing the man on each cheek and drawing a rare laugh from him, “If you hadn’t found out about the pawnbroker, those thieves might have continued their attacks for years.”

It was perhaps an exaggeration. They would have been caught sooner or later. But not necessarily by the musketeers. And, in the additional time, several more merchants, farm owners or nobles could have become bereft of their precious belongings. Marsac felt the exaggeration was warranted.

“I can’t imagine the pawnbroker’s wife is the only person who passes through this place with knowledge like that.” The musketeer mused aloud, “Some small bit of information that to them might seem personal or insignificant, but is in truth of such importance.”

Rene watched warily the enthusiasm with which Marsac spoke, but said nothing.

“If you hear anything, Rene, any other whisper or rumour…you will relay it to me, won’t you?” Marsac asked so casually as if he was asking the man to get up and fetch him the brandy.

“What manner of rumour?” Rene asked, and he did in fact reach over the musketeer to obtain the brandy from the floor where it had been discarded.

“Anything that might pertain to unlawful activities.”

Rene drank from the bottle and licked the sweet alcohol from his lips, holding the bottom one between his teeth for a moment in lingering thought.

“For France.” Marsac encouraged as he took the bottle and relished a long swig himself.

Rene shook his head, “For you.” He replied.

***

Over the following months and years they became, Rene made good on his vow. Every now and then, he would recount to Marsac the nature of some gossip or intrigue he had overheard in the downstairs tavern, or been told by a customer as they laid out their woes for him to repair.

If these little findings seemed to hold significance, the musketeer took them to his captain, or at least at first he did. But when Treville started questioning where Marsac repeatedly came across such useful secrets, the musketeer simply acted on the information himself without the intermediate step.

The crimes were not serious. No conspiracies to assassinate the King or rob the Louvre. Just small scale thefts, some kidnappings, and the occasional murder. Indirectly hinted at by the perpetrator or someone they knew. Crimes committed, crimes intended, some dead-ends.

Marsac became not just a good musketeer, but one of the best. His uncanny ability to bring in criminals that others had failed to find was remarked upon by his peers on many occasions. He enjoyed the renown, and Rene enjoyed hearing of how he had helped the lives of people outside of his small and monotonous daily existence in the brothel.

It was a good life they had come to lead. It was just and honourable, and exhilarating. Marsac felt alive, and he saw a new energy in Rene. In the way his smile lit up brighter than the moon every time he heard the stories of people Marsac saved in part because of him. Of reunions between children and parents, of women brought back from the promise of a terrible fate, of merchants returned heirlooms of value beyond monetary worth.

Life was good, and the lovers were happy.

***

Rene stroked intricate patterns distractedly over Marsac’s chest while Marsac carded his fingers through Rene’s messy hair. In a few minutes, Rene would have to clean himself up and make his way downstairs to try and earn some coin, but for a short time longer the lovers could remain in the warmth and peace of a moment that was purely theirs.

“I am to leave for a mission in Savoy tomorrow.” Marsac said at last. It had become the norm for him to warn Rene, should his duties take him out of Paris for any length of time. And his lover would always make a show of seeing him off with some gesture of his affection, or feign despair at the few additional days they would spend a part.

But not tonight.

“Savoy?” The reply was anxious, unnervingly so.

“Well, near the border, at least.” Marsac replied, “A training exercise. Nothing dangerous, just-”

Rene shot up onto his hands to look down at the musketeer.

“You must not go!” His eyes were wide and frantic. Terrified.

“Not go?” Marsac sat up on his elbows, “I can’t just ‘not go’, Rene, I have my orders.”

“Disobey them then! Become unwell, or injured, or leave on some urgent family matter. Just…don’t go to Savoy.”

Marsac sat up and gently cupped the back of the man’s neck in an attempt to calm him, “Why? What have you heard, my love?”

Rene shook his head, “I-It’s probably nothing…just...a bad feeling.”

When he looked back into Marsac’s eyes, the depths of fear and adoration that the musketeer found there made his heart ache.

“Please, Marsac, promise me you won’t go.”

There was something so utterly desperate in Rene’s voice, and such sincerity in his eyes as Marsac had never seen. Never had anyone looked at him with such a deep fondness and concern. The musketeer imagined - told himself - that Rene was merely reluctant to be left alone again. After all, it had not been so long since his musketeer had been absent on business in Germany for over a month. The need was endearing, and he loved Rene all the more for it.

It was only a training exercise, and Marsac had been a musketeer for years now. He could afford to take some unsolicited time off. He was due it, in fact, after all his good work of late. Surely Treville would not object if he had urgent business with his family, or by some other unforeseen circumstances could not fulfil this one duty. As the musketeer pulled the man he loved into a tight, comforting embrace, he made up his mind.

Marsac wouldn't go to Savoy.


	4. The lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are about to meet Athos! :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and for commenting. I hope you are enjoying so far, and if you keep reading will continue to enjoy.
> 
> Before anything, though, I'm adding:
> 
> *** Trigger warning for domestic abuse ***
> 
> Essentially, Marsac gets a bit violent and emotionally abusive towards Aramis. I felt like it was in his character given his lack of control over his emotions in The Good Soldier, compared with Aramis' uncanny ability to keep his in check. Anyway, if this is something you don't want to read, search for the first '***' in the text, and that will skip past all of it.

\-----------

“How did you know?!” Marsac growled, shoving Rene through his teal door and slamming it shut behind them, “How did you know about Savoy?!”

The whore said nothing.  After his treachery, after his deceit, after sending good men to their deaths, he _dared_ to say nothing.  He didn't even deign to look Marsac in the eye.  But the musketeer saw it in painful clarity.  Every mark of shame marring his pretty features.  It disgusted him.

With a snarl, Marsac forced the smaller man hard against the far wall.

“Which one of the men you let fuck you was it?” He pressed his forearm into Rene’s neck just over the sensitive spot he had graced with his lips so often before, “Who told you about the attack?”

When the whore still refused to speak, Marsac drove his arm in harder, forcing those beautiful lips to gasp desperately for air.  But still not an utterance escaped them.

“Twenty-one of my friends are dead, and you knew!  You could have prevented this!”

Rene’s fingers, so skilled at so many things, were clawing at Marsac’s arm.  He struggled uselessly against the stronger man, but didn't fight him.  Perhaps the whore knew it would be pointless, that he could never outmatch a soldier, not one as good as Marsac, at least.  Perhaps that was why he didn't fight back.  Marsac let that thought drift through his mind as he watched the light in Rene's eyes start to fade.

No.  That wasn't it.

Rene didn't fight him because his heart would never allow it.  Because Marsac was the one who held that heart...just as Rene held his.

Marsac suddenly released his lover and took a shaky step back, letting the other man slump forward, coughing desperately and drawing in precious air.  There was an apology on Marsac’s tongue, but somehow it couldn’t find its way past his lips.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Marsac’s voice was soft and broken with despair at the betrayal, “I could have stopped it.”

“That’s why I couldn’t tell you.” Rene breathed, looking up from his hunched posture to fix Marsac with a resolute gaze, “You would have found some way to stop it, and it-”

The musketeer hadn't realised he had surged back in, but now his left hand was fisted in those wild dark curls and pulling down hard.  Rene winced, his breath coming in unsteady gasps.

" _Why_ Rene?" Marsac choked out, "I trusted you.  I  _loved_ you."

Something visibly broke in the smaller man's eyes.

"Marsac, please, I-" Rene's voice cracked, becoming quiet and hesitant, but he continued, "Th-the red guard Agenet was...he was bragging about it.  He said it was part of a plan by the Cardinal and…your-your captain.”

“The captain?!” Marsac yelled and took an enraged step backwards, releasing his grip and shaking his head angrily, "Betraying his own men, sending them to their deaths..."

Rene hurried to interject, taking an almost instinctive step towards his lover as if the proximity might quell his rage.

“Marsac, no!  There must be more to this.  Your Captain is a good man!"

The musketeer scoffed, "But he is still a man, and every man has his price, doesn't he, Rene?"

Rene flinched at the inference, but took another step towards Marsac nonetheless.  Ever so silently.  Carefully.  As if approach some feral animal.

Marsac felt the part.

"They must have had good reason.” Rene reasoned just as carefully, “Your captain is an honourable man, and surely not even the Cardinal, for all his sins, would ever sanction the deaths of loyal French soldiers without reason.  The lives saved must have been worth those lost.”

“Those lost lives were my friends!”

Marsac shoved Rene back against the wall again, hard enough for his skull to crack loudly against the plastered surface.  A gasp of pain escaped those precious lips and he slumped to the ground, wavering at the edge of consciousness.

The musketeer stumbled back and stared desperately down at the man he loved in dismay.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Marsac tripped over the apology as he collapsed to his knees and pulled his beautiful lover into his arms, "I'm sorry."

He continued to whisper the apology, moving a hand to stroke over tangled curls but aborting the movement when the fingertips encountered the warmth of Rene's blood.  The man was unmoving in his musketeers embrace, so Marsac just remained there, holding his lover just as he always had.

"Someone has to pay for this, for the lives lost." He muttered to himself and Rene both, "Someone has to pay...The Cardinal and Captain must be made to answer for their treachery.  They must be punished..."

He growled angrily.  Rene stirred in his tightening embrace.

"But they're untouchable.  Without reproach.  So far above us all, above the law."

Then the idea struck him.  So obvious.  So utterly brilliant.

He pulled back and held his lover at arm’s length, refusing to notice the way his eyes still flickered in a weak attempt to focus.

“We’ll bring them to ruin like with all the other sinners.” He grinned, proud and manic, "They may be above the law, but they are not above scandal."

Marsac laughed coldly.

"You can find us the information.  Some dark secret or conspiracy to discredit them.  To reveal them for the villains they truly are.  Something so dark and shameful not even they can cover it up.”

“Marsac, please…”

“You must do this, Rene.  Seduce the Cardinal’s agents, the Captains closest confidants.  Any high-born man of the court who comes in here.”

"Such men are not so easily seduced..."

"But it's what you do.  It's what you're good at." Marsac argued, feeling his irritation grow and the reluctance of his supposed lover to help, "You can seduce a minister, a priest...anyone if you want to.  You seduced a soldier, after all."

 

"I didn't seduce you," Rene muttered bitterly, "I saved your life."

"So save it again!" Marsac saw his opening, and a good soldier never missed an opening, "Do you think this is the end?  That the musketeers are safe after this?  No.  Rene, don't you see?"

He smiled encouragingly, lovingly, but Rene didn't smile back.

"If we don't stop them, they will surely be the end of me.  Of us."

The musketeer clasped then his lover’s hands and kissed the knuckles of each tenderly, “Please Rene.  For me?”

And there it was.  The killing blow.

The other man looked hesitantly to their joined hands, exhaled lightly and the beautiful dark eyes finally flicked up to meet Marsac’s.

“For you.”

***

Spring drifted seamlessly into summer, summer fell to balmy autumn, and that in its turn was viscously eclipsed by the bitter chill of winter.

In that time, Marsac’s visits to Rene were sparse and fleeting.  The musketeer was occupied with training a swathe of new recruits, replacements for the dead of Savoy. Marsac did this duty diligently and without question, but every moment he spent with those men, his mind screamed with hatred and rage and grief. Every one of the new recruits was nothing more than a reminder of his comrades, betrayed by the country they had so loyally served.

Just as Marsac did his duty, Rene attempted to do his, but each attempt the whore had made to appease Marsac’s thirst for vengeance had failed.  He had acquired the name of the Cardinal's mistress, but as Marsac informed the whore, that information was utterly useless unless he could seduce _her_ to get what they needed.  Rumours of the Captain’s intimacy with a former comrade had more potential, but were insufficiently grounded to do any good.  They needed some concrete and truly terrible scandal to bring about the downfall of such powerful men.

Other than this repeated disappointment, their liaisons remained a welcome release for the weary musketeer. Rene still knew how to please him physically. It was his profession, after all. But there was a bitter unease lingering over each encounter.

Guilt weighed heavy on Rene’s shoulders, and Marsac could see him struggle to hold himself up beneath it.  His eyes were downcast, his face drawn, and his movements exhausted.  Marsac’s chest tightened every time he saw the unhappy eyes of his lover, but what truly wrenched his heart was the hope they still held when they gazed upon the musketeer.  Hope for redemption.  That Marsac would forgive his crimes.

What he didn’t know, what Marsac couldn’t tell him, was that he had forgiven them long ago.

None of this was Rene’s doing, and Marsac longed so desperately to speak aloud that reassurance and make Rene smile again.  Every time they met the words were on his tongue.  He yearned to tell his love that he had done nothing wrong.  But even while his heart called out in desperate longing to let Rene back in, Marsac could not see past his grief and find the strength to say the words that needed to be said.  In time, he told himself, in time his heart would open up and Marsac could let his lover back in.  Just not yet.  Not until the treachery had been punished, and his retribution complete.

On the frequent nights when heartache and sorrow grew too agonising to stand, Marsac would remind himself that the crimes of the Cardinal and his Captain would soon be punished.  Rene was beautiful and intelligent and an excellent lover.  He could seduce anyone given time...it was just the matter of finding the right person to take into his bed.  That one person who knew the secrets of these powerful men.  The whore would get wind of some scandal they could use soon enough, Marsac would take his revenge, and the lovers could be happy once more.  Life would be good again.

But in all his internal reassurances, Marsac forgot one vital fact: the Cardinal controlled France.

That’s what people said, anyway.  And certainly his invisible influence trickled and wormed its way throughout Paris.  His dread hand could be felt stalking every street and alleyway, hiding in the shadows of each building, and lingering always at the edge of one’s vision, just out of sight.  The King’s First Minister had spies and agents everywhere.  Around every corner, in every tavern, in every brothel.

It really should have come as no surprise when Marsac arrived at Rene’s brothel one afternoon late that winter just in time to see a troop of red guards storming into the building.  Still several metres from the entrance, he quickly slipped into a side street and peered round the sharp stone corner.

As an honourable man, as a musketeer, and as Rene’s lover, he should have followed them in.  He should have been ready to lay down his life.  But some small voice within him, a cowardly and dishonourable voice, told Marsac to stay put.  Just wait.  Wait until they came back out.  They might not be after Rene in any case.  Don’t get involved.

He listened to that voice and pressed himself close against the wall.

It was not long before the troop emerged, dragging a bloody and dishevelled man along with them.  Even with his dark curls a chaotic array and a split lip painting his jaw crimson, Rene looked as captivatingly beautiful as ever.

Marsac found some agonising solace in the knowledge that he would be never forget those handsome features, that Rene’s face would forever be etched in his mind, for Marsac knew that he would never see them again.  Rene would be executed before dawn, and if Marsac stayed in Paris, he would surely follow soon after.

With one final, lingering gaze upon the man he loved, Marsac turned away and never looked back.

***

The commissioner spent several minutes observing his prisoner, assessing him, monitoring every minute detail of his demeanour, before finally addressing him in a voice that echoed through the empty, dark room.

“State your name.”

“Rene.”

The wiry-haired man wrote that in his ledger.

“Rene,” He repeated, “You stand accused of high treason.  Of acting as a spy for Spain.”

“I am no such thing, monsieur.”

“But you are Spanish.”

“My mother was.”

“Your mother was also a whore?”

“She was.”

“And you follow in her footsteps?”

“I work at a brothel, yes.”

“And who do you service in this brothel?”

“Many people, monsieur.”

“Women and men?”

“Women and men.” Rene affirmed.  He grit his teeth at the disgusted look that crossed his interrogator’s features as he recounted this in his ledger.

“And do any of these _men_ whisper to you their secrets?”

“If they do, I do not hear them”

“You are deaf?”

“No.”

“Then how do you not hear them?”

“I do not listen.  I perform my duty and nothing more.”

“Are you saying that, if you were to service a man privy to some secret concerning the security of this country, and that man was to offload this information in the throws of passion, that you would not hear it.”

“I would not hear it.”

“Even though that information could prove beneficial to your people.  Could aid the efforts of your Spanish compatriots?”

“I am French.”

“Do you know your father?”

“No.”

“So you were raised by a Spaniard?”

“Yes.”

“You are Spanish.” The commissioner declared, finalising the matter with another note in his ledger, “And, in the ideal occupation for a Spanish spy.”

“I say again, monsieur, that I am no spy.” Rene held his head high and glared at man before him, “But, it seems to me, _monsieur_ , that you will label me such whether I confess to your accusations or not.  Your mind on the matter is already made up, and so I see little purpose to our continued engagement.”

The scratch of quill on paper ground through the extended silence.  The commissioner looked pack up at his prisoner.

“You will tell me all that you know regarding matters of His Majesty, His Excellence, and the state.”

“I will indeed tell you all, and will tell you that this all equates to nothing, for I know nothing of these matters.”

“More lies!” The commissioner slammed his hands down on the desk.  The sharp echo gave way to a drawn out silence.

Rene didn’t stir.  He didn’t break eye contact with the man.  He would not be broken.

“You will be executed at dawn in a manner befitting your crimes.” The man continued at last, “Confess your treason, and I will ensure your death is swift.”

“I have sworn an oath before God.” Rene returned evenly, “I will not lie.”

“You will-”

The door behind Rene suddenly slammed open, and a man clad in brown leather and the blue cloak of a musketeer stormed in to stand immediately before the commissioner’s desk, taking up position between him and his prisoner.

“You will end this immediately!” The stern-looking stranger ordered, glaring down at the affronted commissioner.

A second musketeer had followed this first in.  He was younger, but bore an expression no less austere than the first.  And yet, with such a serious demeanour, there was a comforting tenderness about him when he placed a hand firmly on Rene’s back.  It was grounding.  With that one, simple gesture, this man spoke of safety and promised protection, without uttering a single word or even letting his ice-blue eyes divert from the altercation going on before them.

“From who does this order come, _Captain_?” The commissioner demanded, biting out the title like an insult.

“From the King.” A sealed letter was planted firmly on the table, “This trial is unlawful, and you will end it immediately.”

The commissioner read the letter over with a scowl that deepened quickly with each new word he took in.  So red-faced was the man by the time he had finished reading that Rene thought he might imminently explode.  Rather than anything so dramatic, however, he just stiffly set the sheet down and, sending an irate glare up at the interlopers, dismissed them with an abrupt wave of his hand.  The musketeers left, taking Rene with them.  He couldn’t understand what had just happened, but the silent promise from the blue-eyed man had been fulfilled.  Rene was led out of the prison alive and without chains.

Neither of his rescuers said a word to him as they mounted their horses, seating Rene in front of the younger musketeer, with that same man’s blue cloak wrapped about his shoulders.  It must have been because he had started shivering, Rene realised, although he didn’t think he was cold.

***

When they arrived in a small and poorly lit courtyard, the younger musketeer immediately dismounted and outstretched both arms to help his riding companion down.  He instead found himself with an armful of his own blue cloak, while Rene eased himself painfully down.  The agony that shot up his left leg when it contacted the dirt was, Rene decided, well worth the almost amusing show of bemusement his actions had drawn on the musketeer's hitherto emotionless face.

The faintest flicker of a smirk twitched at the corners of the man’s blue eyes.

The Captain – Treville, Rene presumed – started off towards a wooden staircase in the corner, and on a instructive nod from the blue-eyed man, Rene followed after with that same musketeer immediately wrapping an arm about his waist in support when he faltered with his first attempted step, that same shooting pain piercing through his left leg.  Rene accepted the help with a quiet "Thank you" to which the musketeer merely nodded, once more devoid of clear emotion.

The stairs gave way to a balcony, and that in turn to a small office.  The space was dominated by a lone wooden desk, behind which the older musketeer took a seat and upon which he leaned heavily.  His brow creased as he observed the two men before him.

He sighed deeply, tiredly, “I’m sorry about this, Rene.  I’m sorry that Marsac got you involved in this.” The remorse was strangely genuine.

Rene's eyes lit up at the mention of his musketeer, “Marsac?  Where is he?”

“Gone.” Came the swift and resolute answer.

“Gone?” Rene repeated, eyes narrowing in confusion before flying wide in panic, “Is he dead?!”

The second musketeer tightened a grip Rene didn’t even realise he had taken on his arm.

“Deserted.”

“Deserted?” Rene echoed again, barely more than a whisper, "No.  That’s not…  But, he-he can’t have…perhaps he is in danger?  Has he been searched for?  Perhaps…”

“He is gone.” The captain repeated.

Rene shook is head, mouth open as if to speak but no words came out.

“He has abandoned you and his post, both.  I only presume he heard of your arrest and fled before you could reveal his involvement.” The man at the desk explained, giving Rene a rueful gaze over this folded hands, “I’m sorry.”

There was an emptiness growing inside Rene.  If the ground was still somewhere beneath him, he could no longer feel it.  If there was still air surrounding him, it wasn’t reaching his lungs.  He was speaking, or trying to, but he couldn’t breathe with the tightness crushing his chest.

“No.  There must be some other…  Why would he?  He-”

“…was a scoundrel and a coward who did not deserve your heart.”

“Athos!” The older musketeer scolded, receiving an unconcerned shrug from his soldier.

Athos had barely known Marsac, only encountering him during initial his training, but he saw before him now the devastation that coward had left in his wake.  Rene’s skin had gone ashen, his eyes wide and unseeing.  He was breathing rapidly and sharply, but without really drawing in any air, as if his body was instinctively attempting to keep itself alive all the while his mind screamed for the release of death.  Athos knew the feeling.

He placed a firm hand on Rene’s upper back and the other on his chest, stepping around to occupy his field of view.

“Rene,” Athos’ attempted to pull the broken man back from his abyss, “Rene.  Look at me, look at me.”

He stroked one gloved hand carefully over the messy curls, and saw those dark eyes close almost immediately at the sensation.  Deciding this was the way to connect to him, Athos continued to whisper reassurances while brushing a hand over the messed and blood-matted hair.  Rene's sharp, rasping breaths slowly grew deeper and more steady.  Each more controlled than the last, until finally Rene looked back up at Athos with a perfect mask settled upon his face.

“Forgive me.” He took a step back, away from the comforting touch, “I need to return to work.”

The polite, lifeless smile that graced his features was unsettling and disturbingly out of place.

“You’re injured.” Athos objected.

“It’s nothing serious.”

“Please allow me to tend to your injuries nonetheless.”

”I can tend to my own injuries.” Rene argued without emotion, taking a step backwards towards the door. He stumbled slightly as his weight shifted onto his left leg.

Athos followed the movement with a small step forwards, “For my part, as a gentleman, I cannot allow you to leave without making certain that you are alright.”

“A few bruises will be the least of my worries if I don’t earn some money tonight.” Rene continued to protest even as he faltered unsteadily.

“I’ll compensate the time.” Athos insisted, grasping the thin shoulders to steady the man when he looked to be about to collapse.

“Don’t.” The smaller man replied bitterly, futilely attempting to push the musketeer away, “I don’t want your money.”

“Then accept our help.” Treville insisted, the kind words sounding strange in the Captain’s stern voice, “We owe you this much.”

Rene looked uneasily at the floor, eyes flicking here and there.  Finally, and without looking up, he nodded.

“If you just have something I could use for bandages...”

Athos nodded and immediately wrapped an arm about Rene's waist to lead him out of the office and directly to his lodgings, feeling his Captain’s intense gaze on his back as he left.  There was something more to this incident, something that had the unshakeable Treville looking drawn and exhausted.  Whatever it was, Athos knew it was not his concern.  Not now, in any case.  His only concern in that moment was the heartbroken man at his side.

The main room of Athos’ lodgings was dark, lit only by the pale moonlight that diffused its way through two windows set along the single outward-facing wall. But Athos had spent many nights alone in this dark room.  It was trivial to locate a simply upholstered chair to deposit his charge into, and only slightly more of a challenge to dig out his softest woollen blanket to drape over the thin frame that had started to tremble beneath his hands as they crossed the courtyard.  Within a few minutes of their arrival, Athos had managed to get a good fire burning in the large hearth, hoping its warmth might seep into the chilled form seated before it, and was rummaging through a drawer in his bedroom for the strips of cloth he kept by, ready for use as bandages.

Rene was still watching the flames mercilessly devour their kindling when Athos returned to set the pile of cloth on the table beside him. Seeing the lack of any forthcoming action towards tending to his wounds, Athos carefully pulled the blanket from Rene’s shoulders and tugged him gently to his feet. That seemed enough to initiate some sort of mechanical response, as Rene carefully slipped out of his shirt and tentatively began pressing over his ribs, wincing every now and then, before moving to his collar bone and performing the same action.

Athos perched on the arm of the chair and observed the man continue his wordless self-examination and the wrapping of injuries that followed, all the while mentally documenting for himself the extent of damage left by the red guards.

When Athos had joined the King’s musketeers, he had been determined not to get wrapped up in the notorious animosity between the red guards and his own regiment. But since his arrival that spring, he had seen enough of the Cardinal's soldiers and their idea of justice to consider himself entirely party to the hatred.  The red guards were cruel and brutal in fulfilling their duties and enforcing their interpretation of the law, doing so with such detestable delight that they seemed to do away with all semblance of honour or chivalry.

The proof of it stood in his apartments now, in the form of this battered young man. He was not a soldier or some dangerous thug, but an unarmed civilian. He had posed those guards no threat. Yet the body exposed before him was littered with developing bruises, and based on Rene’s bandaging, there was more serious damage to his ribs and his left collarbone, shin, and ankle.

It could certainly be worse, but it shouldn’t have been this bad. Rene would never have been able to resist arrest. The beating was brutal, unnecessary, and Athos had no doubt borne out of some prejudice against his profession. The thought that these men called themselves soldiers was sickening.

With his task finished, Rene folded the remaining cloth carefully and looked ready to find somewhere to put it, but the musketeer immediately pulled himself from his thoughts and stood to take the bundle from Rene’s arms, easily manoeuvring him back into the chair in a single motion that flowed seamlessly into his stalking from the room to replace the bandages in their allotted draw.

When Athos returned, he found Rene had wrapped the blanket about his shoulders once more and was clutching it tightly with one hand, the other hanging limp on the arm of the chair.

The flames danced their frantic dance, sending a crackle of embers through the silent room.

“Why are you doing this, monsieur?”  Rene asked at last, orange light from the fireplace casting painfully sharp shadows across his fine features.

In lieu of a response, Athos acquired the ever-present and always filled decanter of wine from his table, grabbed two glasses from a cupboard, and pulled another chair up to the hearth.  He poured the wine and pressed one glass into Rene's free hand, somewhat relieved to find him responsive enough to accept it with an almost-silent "thank you".  The musketeer took a long sip as he sat in the vacant chair and too gazed into the dancing flames.

Rene swirled his wine.  As he took a tentative drink and returned to stare into the glass, Athos saw the surface of the red liquid ripple with the impact of a single tear that had slipped past Rene’s defiant resolve.

Athos drank his wine without speaking, but without moving from his seat before the fire.  With the morning, Rene would return to his brothel and Athos to his duties.  Each would be alone once more. But for just this one night, the lonely could sit in the companionship of misery and grief, staring into the abyss as one.

\-----------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rene is just 'Rene' here because, from my understanding of European surnames in those days, they often related to where one comes from. And my GCSE French tells me that d'Herblay means 'from Herblay'. Since Rene doesn't know his father and has only known his Spanish mother in the context of a brothel, I didn't think he would be able to affix an origin to his name. Hence, he is just 'Rene'.
> 
> Also, having rewatched The Good Soldier for research purposes (an excellent excuse if ever one was needed), I am left wondering how the hell Aramis actually survived Savoy. I mean, he was wearing a thin shirt, clearly wounded enough that he couldn't stand properly, and in the middle of a forest in the snow. I doff my hat to that self-preservation!


End file.
